Neither Tarnished Nor Afraid
by The Brat Prince
Summary: Most of the time, you feel like a god on earth. You're a burning star, boys at your back, and there's nothing you can't do. Kendall/James


**Neither Tarnished Nor Afraid**

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: On Twitter I made the unwise decision to announce that I thought the BTR boys obviously grow up to be the Entourage boys. Which is obviously the truest statement ever made. Brelia_Rose and Eviljellybean 88 then proceeded to regale me with tales about how fic was needed to support my theory. I am easily persuaded. BUT if you don't watch Entourage, I won't bore you- I'll just say that you don't actually have to know ANYTHING about Entourage to understand this story. Promise! It is in second person POV, so I will warn for that. Also mention of past drug use.

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><p><em>"Down these streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid."<em>

**-**Raymond Chandler**-  
><strong>

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><p>Imagine this.<p>

The moon is low in the electric blue-black sky. Every time you look up, the colors pop at you; from the indigo and charcoal of the coming night to the lighter gunmetal of the brushstroke clouds rolling in from the east. It's utter surreal perfection, like a movie-set background.

That's what it's like, tonight. You're living inside of lovely cinematography, and everything is color and angles and the brilliance of life. Closer to home, on the ground, everything is soft and golden. There are a million Chinese lanterns holding flickering flames, casting everything in the orange-red-yellow of a sunset that happened hours ago.

You're surrounded by music, and the beat is sick. It's inside you, making your organs shake and tremble, making your feet twitch, longing for movement. You don't remember dancing as a child, not anything more than silly tap steps or Elvis moves- never hip swaying or pelvis thrusts- but now it's a part of your livelihood. You don't remember what it's like to be stiff-limbed anymore.

Up ahead, there's a pool, and it's the color of the Caribbean, where you jetted off to last week for a party just like this. You can still taste the salt of that water on your lips, but here all you can smell is chlorine and expensive perfume. The only thing you can taste is the tuna tataki and guacamole mini tacos you taste tested five minutes ago and the sweet slow burn of your cocktail, now empty.

Like magic, you feel a sweaty glass pressed to the back of your neck. A familiar voice murmurs husky in your ear, "You look thirsty."

James presses the drink into the hand you lift, fingers expectant, near your shoulder. Before you can turn around to face him, he's gone, and you're left with that memory of white sand beaches and how that place is a world away from Hollywood.

At least the girls are the same; all in teensy little bikinis like they want you to see everything they have to offer. The ones that aren't swimming are dancing or huddled around the bar, all wearing dresses that match in that they plunge too low and ride up too high. Every single one of them is your height or worse, towering on skyscraping Louboutins. The crimson soles reflect back onto the sandstone and silver tile like blood.

You look at the tile, thinking _it's nice_. Maybe you'll have your poolside decorated the same way- but then again, Carlos redesigned the entire backyard two months ago, so maybe not.

Carlos is always redecorating.

You spot him now, with James, laughing together on a lounge chair that probably costs as much as a Maserati. They look happy; comfortable in their own skin, comfortable in the midst of all this extravagance. You smile into your cup, taking a sip.

There's a girl tiptoeing up the steps of the pool, and she's got one of the tightest bodies you've ever seen. She's looking at you and licking her lips like a lioness sighting her prey, and you think about it. What her hands would feel like all over you, what her legs would be like wrapped around you.

You can fuck her, if you want to.

You can fuck anyone you want, now.

Doesn't mean you're going to. You watch her pad towards you, appreciative, internally debating whether or not you're up for it. Decisions, decisions. It's the way James isn't laughing anymore that clinches it. He's watching from his perch on a chaise, chin resting against his folded hands. Carlos is fighting for his attention, but he's not going to get it. James is completely focused on you.

So you focus on the girl. You meet her halfway, all charming grin and pearly white teeth and those goddamned dimples that used to get you mocked in elementary school. The girls go crazy for them, so who's laughing now? "Hi."

"Hi," she nearly purrs at you, and okay, way to come on strong. "You're Kendall Knight."

You like the way she says Kendall Knight like it's a household name. With James's eyes boring into your back, you reply, "Yeah. I am."

Next thing you know, you're in a cabana, licking long lines between her legs, paying special attention to her clitoris. Her thighs squeeze the sides of your face and she moans, throaty and loud. You take it to mean you're doing a good job. Of course you are.

Sex is something you've taken care to get good at, and you like to time how fast you can make a girl come. When she does, you trade your mouth for you dick and do it all over again.

"Kendall," she moans again and _fuck_, this is going to be good. As you slide home though, somewhere in the back of your mind you're wondering what it would be like to do something different. To feel the weight of another guy in your mouth, or pressing into your-

The girl's ankles wrap around your sides, digging into your ass, taking you deeper, and shit. The thought dissipates so much more quickly than it came. You get off with that gorgeous girl, right there; surrounded by movie-set moonlight and the prettiest people Hollywood has to offer. Afterwards, you walk up to James sweat drenched and sated with two shots of tequila. His fists clench like he wants to punch you in the jaw, but instead he takes the shot, golden and smooth, and throws it the back of his throat.

You swallow together.

Imagine this is your life, and tomorrow you're going to get up and do it all over again.

* * *

><p>You spend your days between albums aimless, hitting up all the town's hotspots or making nice with stars who wish they were as big as you. You tried playing golf with Dak Zevon once, but that basically made you want to blow your brains out, so you don't do that anymore. Now you only take up his invitations if they involve the beach.<p>

You do hit up the spa with Kat Sweet, who's still a better dancer than you. Plus she can drink three mimosas in the blink of an eye when your second one always makes you go all champagne bubbly.

The first time Kat invited you for a massage and a facial, you wondered if your balls would shrivel upon stepping foot inside the place, but man, the second that masseuse started working on your spine you were sold.

The chocolate covered strawberries and peach Bellinis were a plus, as far as you're concerned.

Today you don't get to do either of those things though, 'cause you've got eight messages on your phone from Katie, increasing in volume. She's your agent, and around the tender age of thirteen she started cursing like a sailor on shore leave. Now she knows words the United States Navy probably hasn't even heard of.

Over breakfast you consult with the guys, who all live in the mansion with you. Logan whipped up pancakes, even though his cooking is shit and he's in a rush. It's weird now, how everyone has their own careers. When you first got started, the guys would ship off on tour with you because they had nothing better to do. James would even force the studio to coordinate the tour dates with days that he was off from his show, just so that he could bear witness to each and every concert.

You used to expect that kind of dedication. They're you're boys, and they've always been there.

Now though? You're not sure how much longer it's going to last.

Logan's got to dash off to his job. He folds a pancake into his mouth like a seventeen year old boy, simultaneously trying to button the front of his starched shirt. You think about buying him some new suits, because he dresses like a stodgy pediatrician.

He's not a doctor. Med schools don't want a guy who's been in the ER for alcohol poisoning on seven different occasions. Technically speaking, he's your _manager_, but Logan's never really known how to manage you. Mostly he just tells you to keep all the illegal shit on the dl and focuses on his other clients, who are less of a handful. He's building a brand, and he's good at it.

Carlos has his fingers in everything, from the plates stacked with pancakes to venture capitalism to guest spots on random shows. You're not sure how he made all the connections he has, but Carlos has always been a pretty friendly guy. He doesn't really do anything with the money he earns other than put it towards throwing huge parties in your house, and you let him because hey. You like to party.

So does the rest of Hollywood. Carlos's parties are famous. He always procures the best high end liquors and the smoothest weed. You're not even allowed to step foot near a dealer now, so it works.

Today Carlos is trekking off to the desert to talk to some supplier about _something_, but you're not paying enough attention to catch if he's picking up purple haze or Lamborghinis or if he's just running lines with that cute waitress cum actress he met last week.

"I've got an audition," James volunteers, which isn't really news. James has always got an audition, but no one wants to hire him. He spent a five year stint on a sitcom after the band broke up, and all the blogs and papers say that his character was iconic.

Isn't that the shit, being best friends with an _icon_?

Problem is, now people have trouble seeing him as anything else. It's like the James Bond curse; once you go British spy, no one wants to see you make it in another role.

"You going to bomb this one too?" Logan asks, all sourpuss face and pancake stuffed mouth. He doesn't do mornings, or happiness; not since he broke it off with Camille a few months back. It was pretty much a tragedy.

Camille won an Oscar and toned down the crazy. She's a serious actress now, with her pick of the best scripts and the hottest leading men. She and Logan had this thing for years, but she finally dumped the dude when it became obvious that he didn't have the balls to propose. Now she's with this guy whose abs look like they've been air brushed on, and Logan spends most of his time trying to find a carbon copy of the girl he let go.

You don't like to see Logan hurt, so you do whatever you can to get him laid as frequently as possible. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. You don't talks about those times, when girls run from the house in a trail of disgust and glitter.

But right now you really wish he'd suck it up, because James looks like he might cry.

"Don't worry James," you intervene, all teasing and smiles and quirked eyebrows and a distraction, "It's not your talent scaring them off. It's your face."

"I am intensely attractive." James sniffs, looking at you like a dog with its hackles all raised, ready to charge at the mailman. And he is, god, he's so fucking attractive that it's not even fair, but you don't tell him so because his ego's already the size of a small country, and you're not sure the earth can sustain any more of its weight.

You make a noncommittal noise and use your _genuine_ voice to tell him that he's going to rock his audition. You really do want good things to happen for him. He deserves it. No really. James is shallow and selfish and more than a little arrogant, but he deserves good things more than most people you know. He's an amazing person, real deep inside. Even now, even when he's looking at you like he's not sure whether he should believe what you're selling.

James never knows whether to accept your compliments anymore. He's jealous of you. You're completely aware that of how much it pisses him off when more people come up to you rather than him in the street. You're completely aware of how much he resents your success. But you guys are tight, like brothers, so he keeps his mouth shut about it. You're not sure what you'd do if he didn't; if one day he turned around and walked away from the ever looming weight of your star power. It's not like you've got any real claim on him, not blood or money or love. You've got nothing to lure him into staying, but the idea of him leaving makes your chest go tight. When that happens all you can think about is the first time you did a line off the thigh of a Victoria's Secret model, and that's a place you're not allowed to go anymore, not even in your head.

Back then you were Humpty Dumpty, and not even James or Carlos or Logan could put you back together again.

Now you're _whole_, you're composed, you're sober; and you need James around so that you can stay that way.

"I'm going to rock it. _Of course_ I'm going to rock it," James says, all false bravado. He's never once stopped thinking he's hot shit, even though his fame has basically dwindled down to an ember.

He tries to prove his prowess by banging supermodels all over the mansion, but you've made sure to bang more. You like it when he catches you at it, when you can feel his eyes darkly following your every move. You do that a lot; put on these little private screenings for him. Never enough to piss him off so much that he leaves, but enough that he can't ever really forget the shape of your ass and the way you look rocking your hips into another person.

Subconsciously, you might be hoping that he'll covet the image, that he'll take it to his bed on lonely nights and use it to jerk himself off. You're kind of a sick bastard, but that's okay. You've coped with it. At this point, you've got three solo albums out, and you're fucking owning your fame. You can afford to be as sick as you want.

Well.

Not entirely true.

The first album's release was a wave that you rode so high you felt like nothing could get you off of cloud nine. The second bombed harder than Chernobyl, and the third's been rising steady on the charts. You're back to being the world's golden boy, and they're even saying you might get a nod at the Grammys. You're not sure how to feel about that, because that last album, man, it brought you down like nothing ever could. You've never hit bottom so hard, not even when you found out that the Wild was never going to hire an out of practice boy bander. Thing is, that first album made you think you were invincible, from the critical acclaim to the kids in the street singing all your songs like they were classics already. When it turned out you _weren't_? You lost it a little bit.

None of that matters. You've got your feet back under you, money in the bank, and all your friends' trust back. You're building a dynasty, here, and this time it won't topple.

"I've got to go meet Katie," you say, climbing out of your chair and throwing your friends a casual wave, just like you used to do over breakfast at the Palmwoods. You head out to the garage, where you've got an old Lincoln Continental with suicide doors, and an Escalade, and an Aston Martin.

Okay, you've got four of those; you bought 'em as a present for the guys after your first album hit it big time. You'd like to take one of your ridiculous cars and drive down the highway until it all blurs together; from San Diego to Santa Monica, all the way up to Caramel and beyond. California's got a lot of beauty hidden in all these unexpected places, and there are days like today where you need to get out of LA. The city is a soul sucking succubus, and you love being in her thrall, but. Sometimes you just need to remember what a conscience is, and figure out if you still have one.

You're not a boy from Minnesota anymore.

At the studio, there's a great big poster of Jo smiling down at you from the wall, band of silver winking on her finger as she performs a flirty wave. Weirdly enough, she's your competition. You remember that she wanted to be the next Emma Watson, but the Chauncey Jackson series was a total flop. The directors took too many creative liberties with the characters and the plot, which they always seem to be doing in Hollywood. Directors don't care about the built in fan base these book to movie deals come with; they want to prove that they're smarter, better, and infinitely more commercial. No one has learned a thing from Harry Potter. Like, why mess with a good thing?

Anyway, after the series went to hell, Jo returned to New Town High. Three movie contracts don't mean shit if there aren't going to be three movies. At that point, New Town High had taken a dive as well, because teenagers can only take so many on screen pregnancy scares, even if they happen at a haunted high school. She turned to singing, but even then Jo had to find a way to get the public's attention. She did what every single child star from the House of Mouse has done since the dawn of television. Virgins are always en vogue.

She has this pretty little chastity ring she flashes around like it doesn't represent what goes on in her genitalia. Every time Jo shows it off, all you can remember is how hot and tight her pussy was.

You're not planning to spill the beans though. Everyone has a gimmick, even you.

You wait in front of art deco walls and Jo's smiling face, right next to a big poster of your own, and all the other A-list clients the studio boasts. It's a little blasphemous to your sister's success, but you miss Gustavo. He wasn't easy to work with, but he was fun, and his reactions were predictable. You trusted him, and he never expected anything from you that you couldn't actually deliver. Now he's rotting in the suburbs, playing housewife and raising a brood of children in what might be the most inadvisable social experiment in the world. They're going to be some fucked up kids when they grow up, but they call you Uncle Kendall, so you try not to get too up in his face about how crap his parenting skills are.

Kelly's still around though, and she's got your back, even if she's picked up some really rude words from all her years at Rocque Records. She doesn't produce anymore; she's an agent, working the phones and sealing all kinds of deals. Kelly built the agency from the ground up. She made a name for herself as someone who likes to play hardball, but she's never been able to outshine your little sister. Katie may not be good at making friends, but she is great at counting out big fat stacks of money. She had her own small company that she allowed Kelly to buy into a year back. The two of them are at each other's throats twenty four seven. Every time you see the curve of the agency's shiny white walls and the too-bright posters, you feel like you need to don protective gear. But both of them love you, and even if they say different, you know you're their favorite client.

You're also their top money maker, which probably helps, history or no.

Katie's arrival is announced by the click of her stilettos. Your little sister has a kind of prickly beauty that she must have inherited from your dad, because your mother is made up of soft angles. Katie is _sharp_, from her spike heels to her industrial urban-chic jewelry to the sharp lines of her suit to the clean, fashionable cut of her three hundred dollar hairdo. She's bullied half of the industry into falling at her feet and she's not even a quarter of a century old. In twenty years, she's going to have conquered the entire world. But when she looks at you, her smile is the same as it was when she was eleven; all warm and sweet and your little sister.

Katie wraps you in a bear hug. Then she warns her assistant that if he wants to have a dick for his boyfriend to keep sucking, he won't disturb you.

Apparently, her assistant's boyfriend doesn't give the best head, because he interrupts the meeting at least three times with phone calls. Katie doesn't mind. She's on task. "I'm trying to set up a collaboration with Dak Zevon."

"Oh god, he's so boring."

"You're just jealous that he dated James during his homosexual phase."

Your sister knows you too well. You roll yours eyes and refuse to answer, because rockstars with even a hint of gay on them don't usually last long in the industry; not mainstream, at least.

Katie doesn't stop staring, so you say, "I don't like him because he's _boring_. Do you know how many times he's tried to teach me the perfect backswing?"

You imitate swinging a driver and make a rude noise.

"Do you know how many times you've tried to teach me a slapshot?" Katie has her bossy voice on, which you both know means she's going to win. Katie almost always wins, except that one time, with the album that flopped and- well. Now you know that your baby sister knows best. You're both perfectly aware that you're going to cave. It's only a matter of how long it takes.

"Look, I've got a whole list of collaborators lined up for this thing, and Dak is- not the most famous one. But you're friends, so he's a sure thing. Alright? It's good to have a sure thing."

"Fine. But if he tries to take me to Pebble Beach again, I'm out."

Katie heaves a sigh of relief, but you don't let it get to you. When you walk out into the sidewalk, you breathe deep and put on your superstar smile. Hollywood's this thing that you can taste on your tongue; smog and exhaust fumes and the ashes of crushed dreams. There's desperation and jacaranda and a distant hint of sea salt, and all of it sits in your mouth like fine cigar smoke, waiting for you to exhale.

It's funny 'cause you hate puffing cigars; you always want to hold the smoke in, pull it all the way down until it's in your lungs. You're greedy, but why shouldn't you be? Most of the time, you feel like a god on earth. You're a burning star, boys at your back, and there's nothing you can't do. Girls fall over themselves to fuck you, you've got at least fifty fantastic new songs in the works, and your agent extraordinaire has offers to do collaborations with everyone from Lady Gaga to Sting. Everyone wants to touch you, to catch a bit of your glow in their hands.

It should be perfect.

It's not, but you don't let that crack your smile. You stroll down the road, trying to figure out if you feel like hitting up the studio today or taking that one producer up on his offer to court you over lunch. Or-

You haven't been to the hockey rink in a while, and the fever is an itch under your skin. Usually you ward it off with sex and liquor; or maybe you don't. Maybe all the sex and liquor is the fever, come to life.

It's not a bad way to go insane.

At least you're not orange.

You don't hit up the rink. You end up heading back home, lounging by your gigantic pool reading a script that someone sent you, even though you're not much of an actor. You've been in a couple of films, but none of it was life changing, and you're not sure if you're ready to go the Mark Wahlberg route. Just comparing yourself to him makes you feel like you're living stolen days, like this is somebody else's life and you're just borrowing it for a little while. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is torture.

The sun has seeped so far into your skin that you feel dizzy with it. You stumble to your feet, thirsty and wondering if it's ever too early for whiskey on the rocks. All you can think about now is the honey color of the liquor as it steeps over ice cubes, and the cool, rich taste of it on your tongue.

You've got your hand on one of the bottles sitting pretty on the bar, ready to pour, when you hear a crash. Even though you thought you were alone in the house, you don't panic. You've got a ludicrously expensive security system, and the chances of a thief beating it in the middle of the day are slim to none.

Just in case, you pick up a table lamp and creep in the direction of the sound.

It's James, lifting weights. You all work out, but he's almost obsessive about it. He always has been, really. But it's just gotten worse since his show ended. It's like he thinks if he's perfect, good things will follow. It breaks your heart when they don't.

Sighing, you set the lamp aside. "How was your audition?"

James pauses, mid lift. He doesn't seem surprised by your presence; he must have spotted you poolside when he came in or heard you tramping around trying to catch a thief. Stealth isn't really your forte.

"Fuck acting, man," James says, and those aren't words that you ever thought you'd hear coming out of his mouth, because he loves acting and singing and dancing and the whole artistry of all of it. He's always had the _passion_. And you've always had the _talent_; it doesn't seem fair. You walk into the room that's been dubbed the mansion's gym and take a seat on the flat surface of the treadmill.

"You don't mean that."

"Probably not," James agrees, but he doesn't look at you while he sets the barbell carefully back where it belongs. "Do you ever think it's weird?"

"What?"

"This was my dream. All I ever wanted was to be famous, but you come along and you're just- so much better at it."

"James. You had the band and the show and- something new is going to come along."

"I know. But no matter what I do, I'm never going to be as big as you. You're a star, Kendall."

It doesn't sound like a compliment.

"Why don't you take up singing again?" You suggest, because you can't- won't– rise to the bait there. James likes to fight when he's feeling down.

"Singing's your thing, now."

And it's a silly reason, like choosing the same career path means you're trodding in each others' footsteps. But you've known James for a million years, and knowing him, it makes sense.

He's always wanted to stand out, but he'd never risk stealing your thunder.

You watch James work through his reps, the flex of his muscles and the sheen of his sweat all catching your interest. If you'd been in a real gym, the staring would have been weird, but here, in the sanctity of your own home, it's somehow okay.

"There's a party tonight," James says, and his arms are huge. You want to run your tongue along the bead of sweat running from his elbow down his bicep, but you force yourself to stay still. You're used to the wanting, used to pushing it down in your stomach until it sits there like an ache, like sushi gone bad.

Certain times are harder than others though, like when James visits you at the studio and sings for the nostalgia of it; his voice angelic, his smirk devilish, his hips swaying better than yours ever can. When that happens, you just want to pin him to the ground and- well. What you usually end up doing is chatting up the nearest girl you can find, whether she's a sound tech or a barista. You don't discriminate, and you don't waste times with games, with trying to find a place where James will _want_ you because you're too busy wanting _him_. You find your girl and then you take her somewhere and fuck her like a wild animal, until the sound of James's voice becomes a distant memory and your emotions turn into something that you can handle again.

"There's always a party," you say. James allows himself a smile, lifting the barbell again so that his pectorals pop. You want to kiss the space between his nipple and his side, the triangle of skin where he's so ticklish that his laughter comes out in yelps, boyish and carefree. You miss the days when you were still a fledgling boy band, back when things like tickle-wrestling were perfectly acceptable. Not so much for grown men, but then you don't feel like a man. Maybe a boy-man, an in-between thing like a Britney song, and isn't that sad?

James sets the weight aside, sitting up and straddling the bench, abdomen glistening. He looks like an extra from 300.

"Kendall, are you okay? Are you-" he looks like he's searching for a tactful way to ask if you're jonesing again, if the need's creeping up on you like a twitch of your fingers and an itch in yours bones.

"I'm good. Better than good," you say, and James visibly relaxes, relief evident. He never did cocaine with you, not even once- even when Carlos and Logan would- because his body is a sacred citadel or a temple or something.

You would worship him on your knees, if he'd let you.

Something must show on your face, because the next thing you know, all that blossoming relief has vanished. James is off the bench, kneeling in front of you. It's the complete opposite of the little fantasy that just flickered through your brain.

"Hey." James has his big hand wrapped around the back of your neck, and you lean into it, looking up into his eyes, dark and fierce and flecked with gold. "We're always here for you."

He knocks your foreheads together, gentle. For a few seconds you stay that way, connected by your third eyes, sharing breath between you, and you think you catch him staring at your mouth. But then the moment is over, and James is standing, eyes shaded so that you can no longer see his lion's irises or the way he cares so deeply.

Taking a shaky breath, you ask the first question that comes to your mind. "Why'd you really bomb the audition?"

"They wanted some sixteen year old kid as the lead." James shakes his head, all haughty and proud, like a real lion. "I don't play second fiddle to anyone. Least of all some kid whose balls haven't dropped yet."

You laugh, because you're supposed to, but it doesn't reach deep in your stomach. It's not real. James has a rep around Hollywood as a diva and a goofball. It doesn't matter that he's beautiful; no one wants to hire a guy who's not a team player. And you think that you're to fault for that. The only team James was ever content to play for was yours.

Whenever he tried to branch out and do his own thing, you did whatever you could to reel him back in. You guarded him, possessively, because you needed him to have your back.

In Minnesota, you remember gliding along the ice, faster than the wind, with your James at your heels. Back then, he was okay playing second fiddle to a teenager, as long as that teenager was you.

* * *

><p>You used to love the buzz and the thrill of parties; the crush of a crowd parting like the Red Sea just for you. Tonight excitement still hums in the back of your head, but it's outweighed by the exhaustion and the fear and all the things you had to go through to cross out a thousand nights of champagne and cocaine and the golden tan thighs of supermodels. It's almost a relief when your phone rings, a steady buzz in your back pocket.<p>

"Hey, bro."

You're automatically suspicious. Katie's never nice to anyone unless she wants something.

"What's going on?" You yell to be heard over the din.

"Um. Dak backed out of the collaboration. He said that your swing sucks."

"Oh." Disappointment swells in your gut. If Dak backs out, what does that mean for your next album? You can't go back to the dark times. Your fingers twitch. You force yourself to stare at the club's walls, at the shadowbox designs that dip and curve and disappear past where you can see.

"Don't worry about it, Kendall. You've already got so many artists on this next album; you're going to be great. Better than great. Promise."

"Okay." The word isn't convincing. Your voice is caught in your throat. Hadn't she told you this morning that you needed a _sure thing_? "Thanks, Katie."

"Mm. Is that a party I hear?"

You look around. Logan's got his phone attached to his ear, and James is watching you with something like worry over the shoulder of a pretty brunette. Carlos looks like he might start hocking crates of tequila to Bob Saget, or worse, swing from the nice club's chandelier. The party is lame, and you want to leave.

"Not really."

You hang up. You're angry and you're frustrated and you're a little bit scared. You're thinking about grabbing the boys and walking out the club. You want to hop into your car with its suicide doors and scream down the Pacific Coast Highway, to yell so loud and so angry that the world quivers with it. It's what you would have done only months ago, back when you were spinning out of control.

You take deep, calming breaths, but a part of you still wants to run. Except now there's a pretty girl hanging on your arm, and James is watching, jealous-eyed across the room.

It helps.

Fuck the missed collaboration, you think. _This_ is something you can control. This is something that makes you feel famous. You don't need Dak.

You only ever really feel like a _star _when James is watching anyway.

Forcing a smile, you lean down and ask the girl if she wants to head somewhere more private, like the roof. You're pretty sure she's going to let you fuck her on the stairs, where James will conveniently fall over you. He'll be all flustered anger and possessive eyes and you will think about kissing him and hope that he's thinking about kissing you.

Once upon a time, you think that you were different. You were a nice boy, and you're still a nice boy, but something's changed in your translation of the word, like you got a new dictionary along with your _how to be a rockstar _handbook. But none of that matters now, because it's too late to change.

You're a superstar, you're _somebody_, and tonight you're going to live. And then there will be tomorrow, and the day after that; a string of cloudless, perfect days where you will only feel complete with your entourage.

You decide that it's better not to think past that.

* * *

><p>AN: A reviewer just pointed this out, and I would like to say- Dear anon, I totally ship Vince/E too. I just don't ship Kendall/Logan, and Logan is very obviously E in this scenario. :)


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